Jam Session
by Shearwater
Summary: Brandt, a radio and an empty locker room after a long day makes for prime shower singing. Rated K for some swearing.


**Hello again! Just a quick drabble prompted by the "Top Ten Actors Who are Unexpectedly Good Singers." Seeing Jeremy Renner crooning over a piano…well, lets just say it got the creative juices flowing. ;)**

 **Disclaimer: Once again, the Mission Impossible movie franchise is not mine, and all songs and music mentioned in this fic belong to the artists who produced them.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **P.S. The idea of Bandt being twins with Clint Barton of the Avengers (don't own them either, waa) was inspired by the stories of fanfiction author TantalumCobolt, as the way he or she portrayed them as brothers was freaking adorable.**

Jam Session 

Brandt sighed gratefully as he eased down onto the locker room bench, feeling the stress of the mission slough off of him. God, sometimes just sitting down after a long day was the best feeling in the world. Muscles relaxing, breathing evening out. Heaven.

It had been a short op, but intense, leaving Brandt and his teammates uninjured and successful but exhausted from the pressure. Ethan was still being debriefed by the Secretary, Jane had gone to grab coffee downstairs, and Benji, their tireless tech wizard, was tying up some loose ends. Which left Brandt alone in the agents' locker room, a space that provided for returning operatives showers, lockers, benches and couches, and a vending machine. After a day like today, it was heaven. And with his team scattered for now, Brandt had the locker room to himself.

Brandt rose slowly again, stretching out his sore muscles. He went to his locker, and after fighting with the combination lock for a few turns, opened the door to retrieve a change of clothes and towel. As he did, the mirror on the inside of the locker door caught something in the corner that piqued Brandt's curiosity.

Brandt frowned, grabbed his clothes and closed the locker. He strode over to the table in the corner. There was a pile of someone's clothes there–marred with old bloodstains, he tried not to notice, maybe they were Ethan's from that last mission in Romania–but they made too tall of a lump to be standing alone. Something was under there. He stuck his bundle under his arm and gingerly moved aside the discarded clothing.

The bloody garments fell off to reveal an angular plastic cube, a single silver antenna bent sideways over it from the previous weight. Brandt's eyebrows rose in surprise. It was a beat-up Sony radio, clearly silent for a long time.

Huh. Brandt had never been much of a singer in the shower–his twin brother Clint made it impossible to do anything of the sort without being laughed right out of the bathroom–but he'd loved music since he knew what it was. And at the end of a hard day's work few things were as fitting and satisfying.

He fixed the antenna, found a cord, plugged it into the nearest outlet, knelt next to the table and started surfing stations. Most of them were static–who knew it would be so hard to get FM signal inside a _government building_ – but he found a few clear ones. Unfortunately most of what he was hearing wasn't exactly his cup of tea.

 _Jesus, don't they play_ anything _other than this dance pop garbage?_ Brandt kept surfing until he heard a familiar guitar peal that froze his fingers right then and there and made him feel like he'd been socked in the gut. _Holy shit._

U2's "With or Without You." He'd heard that song so many times growing up, finding it now made him surprisingly nostalgic. The aching loneliness in Bono's voice, the echoing peals of the Edge's guitar combined with Mullen's rising drums and Clayton's shadowy bass, all forming a sound at once serene and shriekingly painful–Brandt suddenly felt very young again. He could suddenly see their mother singing along in the kitchen when they were little, and later, long car rides to school with his brother listening to the radio play. In fact, the day he and Clint graduated and decided to go their own ways, Brandt onto the path that led to the IMF and Clint into training for the secret service and eventually to SHIELD, Brandt went home, locked himself in his room, and played the entire _Joshua Tree_ loudly enough to rattle the windows. It was an album to be played during a time of change.

Brandt felt a trace of a smile ghost his face. Those were the days. Before he and his brother had parted ways. They were still close, but damn did Brandt miss him sometimes. It was also before he found himself in a career that was at once exhilarating and made him feel like he did right now: freaking _exhausted._

The song ended, and Brandt stood and strode slowly over to the nearest shower as the next one started up. There was no harm in leaving the radio on; after all, he was the only one here. He'd never showered with music before, but he recognized the song coming on, and turning it off now would be bordering on sacrilege.

Sandpaper voice, get-it-on beat and guitar chords that didn't take no for an answer. Addictive. Brandt found himself singing along to the familiar lyrics as he turned on the water and stripped down. " _Livin' easy, lovin' free, season ticket on a one-way ride…askin' nothin', leave me be, takin' everything in my stride…"_ Brandt felt a little goofy, but c'mon. It was AC/DC. " _I'm on the hiiiigghhhhway to hell! Hiiiighway to hell!"_ His voice, slightly muffled by the water, echoed around the locker room.

He must have found some classic and alt rock station, because over the next half hour Brandt had a helluva jam session, and boy, had it been a long time coming. He sang and danced along to R.E.M and Nirvana, The Cranberries and Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton and the Rolling Stones, and felt the hours and stress of the day's mission slowly lift away. There was something about music, he decided, and howling along to it, that made the immediate pains of the day, as well as the older, deeper ones, at once become peripheral and silenced. Brandt let himself get lost in a forest of sound, enjoying the surprisingly good acoustics of the blissfully empty locker room, and decided he'd be leaving the radio on during showers a _lot_ more from now on.

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As Ethan approached the locker room he fantasized about the feeling of warm water running over his body, the lengthy, unpleasant debrief with the Secretary finally over. He liked the woman, but yeesh, did she have to get the last word in, a trait made more aggravating by the fact that she had not fully accepted Ethan's operative style yet. Apparently she deemed jumping off buildings and high-speed motorcycle chases "reckless and unnecessary" for the majority of their missions, leading Ethan to calmly explain the circumstances of this particular op. Targets get bikes too a lot of the time.

Well, it was over now, and Ethan was looking forward to a warm shower, clean clothes and hopefully a night out with his team. It was a Friday, they had no new missions coming up, and they deserved a good time.

The rest were probably already in the showers or done already, and Ethan silently prayed they'd left some hot water. He wasn't expecting, then, to find Jane crouched near the door of the locker room, an incredulous look on her face.

"Jane?" he asked, stopping before her. "What…" and then he heard the music pulsing inside the room, and laid over the lyrics, a familiar voice singing along.

Ethan's eyes met Jane's. She was grinning. "Is that–"

"Yep."

Ethan's eyebrows shot up. He couldn't believe it. "Are you serious?"

"Yep."

Ethan couldn't keep the grin off his face. He'd never pegged Brandt as the kind of guy to rock out in the shower, but hey, you never know with reclusive ex-analysts.

His eyebrows rose further as he listened. "He's actually not half bad."

"If you say so." Jane stood. "I think I'll just shower at home tonight. Meet you guys at the bar around seven?" She was holding something in her hand, and her smile had taken on a devious glint.

"Sounds good." Ethan peered at her hand. "What have you got there?"

Jane turned and started walking slowly away. "I may not be interrupting him, but do you really think I'd pass up a blackmail opportunity this sweet, Hunt?" She twirled the handheld microphone recorder as she strode down the hallway. "See you at seven." Her footsteps faded and she took the exit out.

Ethan chuckled, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He'd shower at home tonight too, and leave their budding Madonna to his practice. It had nothing to do with the fact, no, that Brandt had a legitimate singing voice, or that Ethan had seen the exhaustion in his eyes on today's mission and he knew he needed a release. Uh-uh. No, it was totally because the song coming on happed to be by Ethan's favorite band, and there was no way he was barging in on Brandt now.

After all, you can't just turn down Led Zeppelin.

 _The End_

 _P.S. Reviews are greatly appreciated :)_


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